When I was born
The astrologer declared
This child will fly
Very very high
My parents were glad
Silently they whispered
‘Our son
Will become a pilot
And touch the the sky’
Time passed
They waited and waited
But nothing exciting created
One day I showed them
My self composed poem
They
But felt no joy
And thought
What is this useless boy
My father scolded
What we wished you
To be
And what you
Turned out to be
You gave us
The worst despair
You ought to be
A pilot
But you happened to be
Waste the paper
I explained
I’m too a pilot
Without a plane
I too fly
In the sky
With my imaginations high
But they left in gloom
With my paper, pen and doom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem